What am I doing here?I feel so adrift. So purposeless and pointless and…
Like a liar. Like a fraud.
What kind of show did I put on to make Young-gi think he liked me? Me, of all people? He doesn’t know the real me, he couldn’t possibly. He doesn’t know what I did. What I’ve been through.
He already knows more than anyone else and still likes me, a small voice reminds me hopefully. And it’s not wrong. Young-gi knows I killed people, he knows I’ve got enough issues to fill a dump truck and a chip on my shoulder big enough to park that fucking dump truck on.
But he doesn’t knoweverything. Doesn’t know what Idid.
Doesn’t know what was done to me.
Would he toss me away if he knew? Would he pity me, be disgusted, be wary or distrustful? I don’t trust myself; why would he trust me? I’m a psycho.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening between us. I don’t understand how to be with him or react to him or feel about him. I don’t understand what he wants from me, if he wants anything at all.
All the connections I've had as an adult have been transactional and temporary, by my own choice. But he’s made it clear that those words don’t apply to us.
Maybe I could get it, could know how to handle this, if I’d been braver and just ran away sooner, but I stayed. I’m so fucked up, and I’m not sure what’s happening here, between me and Young-gi. I don’t…understand it.
A knock on the door makes me flinch, and when it opens, I scowl, fierce and angry.
“You’re supposed to wait until I say come in,” I snap.
“Are you feeling needy today, Tommy?” he asks me, casual like he’s asking me about the weather. Like me sassing him first thing in the morning is some secret code he’s cracked and he’s presenting me with the answer.
“No, goddamn, just leave me alone.”
He leans against the doorframe and stares, his arms crossed. He waits, patient and predatory. I scowl and try my best not to squirm but I’m so restless and he’s just so good at waiting me out.
“Fuck you,” I finally mutter. “What do you want?”
“I made breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” I insist, lying.
“You want soap first, is that it?”
“You can’t know if I’m hungry or not!” I growl, punching one of my pillows. “I’m going back to bed, I’m tired.”
“Cranky, too.”
“Fuck you!”
He raises an eyebrow and waits.
Ugh!
He looks so fucking sexy and annoying. I raise an eyebrow right back.
We have a contest that doesn’t go well for me, and I feel stupid for even trying. Stupid and small, but not the good kind of small that he makes me feel. The bad kind of small. Unimportant. A liar.
And I don’t want to feel this way, but maybe this is just what I am.
I want to forget, I want to make this all stop. I want whatever this is between us to be something simple and straightforward and–and–and unnecessary. Not something I need, but something I can wrap my head around. Something I understand.
